


A Viewing

by yourebrilliant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-07 00:37:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourebrilliant/pseuds/yourebrilliant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prospective buyer sees more than the mod cons during a viewing at 221B (future!fic)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Viewing

‘The lounge is just through here,’ John says, gesturing for the young woman viewing the flat to precede him into the main room. ‘As you can see, it’s very spacious.’

As always when he’s showing people round the flat, John can’t help but compare the experience to his own first viewing; with the place looking like a church hall before a jumble sale, strewn liberally with Sherlock’s belongings. It’s just as well Lestrade interrupted before they got to the kitchen or he’d have found out about the heads in the fridge and the eyes in the microwave before he ever realised how brilliant and mad and funny his flatmate was. He’d have left as soon as possible, found himself a nice sane flatmate, probably settled down with a nice sane woman, and the last ten years of his life would have been a great deal poorer for it.

It’s much tidier at the moment. With both of them sleeping in Sherlock’s room, John’s old bedroom has been turned into Sherlock’s study - relieving the lounge of about half its contents – and Sherlock has been prevailed upon to store his experiments at St Bart’s until the flat is sold. This is based mainly on the knowledge that the property they’re moving to has a scullery which Sherlock has delightedly declared is perfect for a proper home lab. John will be just as delighted when the only heads in their fridge are heads of lettuce.

‘The kitchen’s just through here, Mrs Grey,’ he says, gesturing through the sliding doors.

‘Jane, please,’ she says, smiling at him warmly.

‘Jane,’ he agrees. Before he can recount the positive aspects of the kitchen, the familiar sound of a heavy tread on the hall carpet resounds and Detective Lestrade flings open the front door and strides into the flat.

‘John,’ he calls, his tone heavy. John is already making his way towards him when Lestrade appears at the kitchen door. His expression is grim. ‘Trouble.’

‘What’s wrong?’ John asks, more surprised to see him than anything else. Greg no longer appears in their living room, his foreboding tone and weary expression heralding multiple murders and several sleepless nights. Except today, apparently.

‘One of your kids is winding Anderson up,’ Greg says, looking as if every one of his years has been spent suffering some interminable fate and he has only more of the same to look forward to.

‘Oh, d’you have children, Dr Watson?’ Jane, who has been watching the conversation with wide-eyed fascination, chooses this moment to pipe up curiously.

‘Well,’ John hedges, ‘not technically-’

‘John,’ Sherlock has appeared suddenly, looming behind Lestrade like the world’s best dressed undertaker. Despite his off-beat appearance and reproachful tone, John can see Jane eyeing him with that look women get around him, the kind that makes John wonder if it would make any difference if he pointed out that Sherlock is married. To him. Sherlock is, of course, completely oblivious to this, his full attention focused on chastising John for something. ‘What have I told you about hedging around the truth for the sake of politeness?’

‘That it’ll shorten the list of people Greg’ll have to interview if my dead body floats up on the tide?’ John retorts sarcastically. Greg cracks at smile at this and John can see Jane look at them all askance, disturbed by the macabre humour of those who deal with death on a daily basis.

‘That it is unbecoming of an intelligent man,’ Sherlock corrects.

‘Okay for me, then,’ John responds, in a practiced manner. After so much time together, he knows exactly what Sherlock will say next, indeed as he says it, John can see that Sherlock’s expression is more fond than castigating.

‘Nor is false humility, _Doctor_ Watson,’ he retorts. ‘In response to your question, Mrs Grey,’ he continues, abruptly switching his focus to their visitor, she starts, surprised to be the subject of that intense, omnipotent gaze, ‘Doctor Watson and myself have no biological progeny. Detective Lestrade is referring, inaccurately, to the young men and women we are training to assist the police force following our retirement.’ John is impressed with the tact Sherlock demonstrates by not preceding the term “police force” with “woefully inadequate” as he usually does.

‘Do you have to train them to wind Anderson up?’ Greg asks, wearily.

Sherlock sighs, projecting his usual air of beleaguered genius. ‘I don’t _need_ to train them to do that,’ he retorts. ‘It is simply the inevitable result of honed intellect faced with blatant stupidity.’

‘Which one is it?’ John asks, interrupting before the two men can get into another fight.

Greg leans against the kitchen door. ‘Jacobs,’ he sighs.

John nods understandingly. ‘Ah, yes, he always did take after Sherlock most.’

‘It is not possible for a person not of my genetic stock to “take after me”, John, as well you know,’ Sherlock comments, treading once more over well-worn ground. Jane is looking at them like she thinks they should all be committed and is hoping that if she keeps quiet they’ll forget she’s there and she can escape their mad clutches.

‘I’m not getting into a nature/nurture debate with you again, Sherlock,’ John retorts, fishing out his mobile as he speaks.

‘Good,’ Sherlock comments airily. ‘You would lose, again, as I have pointed out repeatedly that the “nurture” argument would only apply during their formative years.’

‘Sixteen _is_ formative, Sherlock,’ John cannot help but respond. ‘There,’ he says, sending a gently admonishing text to Sherlock’s protégé with advice to avoid Anderson and keep all comments about the man’s intelligence to himself. He doubts Jacobs will pay him any attention – he does take after Sherlock after all – but at least Greg will be satisfied. ‘Now,’ he says, trying to gain control of the situation again, ‘Greg, you may return to your crime scene,’ Lestrade murmurs his thanks and clatters down the stairs again, ‘Sherlock you may return to your belfry,’ Sherlock’s responds to his whimsy with a distracted sneer and swirls abruptly out of the room, despite the complete lack of his swirly coat. ‘Jane,’ John says, drawing the stunned woman’s attention back to the purpose of her visit, ‘I believe I was showing you the kitchen.’


End file.
